


The Unexpected Blind Date

by fhartz91



Series: Klaine Advent Drabble Challenge 2014 [18]
Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Drama, Escort Service, F/F, Ficlet, Future Fic, M/M, Romance, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-04
Updated: 2015-08-09
Packaged: 2018-03-05 06:56:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3110321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fhartz91/pseuds/fhartz91
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kurt is stuck in his apartment over Valentine’s Day, working frantically to finish an assignment for school, when a man shows up at his door claiming to be his date for the evening.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Klaine Advent Drabble prompts ache, balance, cloud, dessert, and evening.

“Jesus Christ, Hummel, are you _still_ working?” Those are the first words out of Santana’s mouth when she walks through their apartment door, a Build-A-Bear box dangling from her index finger and a garment bag hanging off her hand. She takes a step, pulling at her key, but stops and groans dramatically when her key sticks in the lock. She stomps her foot, jiggling the key and cursing in muffled Spanish as she tries to wrestle it free. “You haven’t… _urgh_ …moved from that spot… _grrr_ …since before I left six hours ago,” she comments between curses.

“Uh…yeah,” Kurt says, distracted. He pulls a pin out of the fabric that he has spread out on the floor in front of him and repositions it slightly more to the left. He flattens a wrinkle with his fingertips and then sits up to better examine the direction of his bias, ignoring the screaming pain in his overworked knees. “Why would I?”

“Because it’s Valentine’s Day,” Santana answers condescendingly, as if Kurt is the simplest human being on earth. “You’re supposed to be out partying, drinking, getting laid...”

“F.Y.I., I don’t have a boyfriend,” Kurt says, not looking up from his pattern to trade barbs with his roommate.

“F.Y.I., you don’t _have_ to have a boyfriend to get laid, _especially_ on Valentine’s Day,” Santana remarks, closing and locking the door one-handed.

“Isn’t Valentine’s Day usually celebrated by monogamous couples?” Kurt asks, confused as to what his roommate is getting at. He can never understand why Santana seems to make his love life (or non-existence of) her business. He’s had a few boyfriends since he’s been at college, they didn’t work out, no one died, end of story. Besides, with all the work he has to get finished before the end of the semester, relationships aren’t really his thing right now. Anyway, Santana has Brittany to smother. She doesn’t need to make _him_ her pet project.

“Yes, Chuckles, it’s celebrated by monogamous couples, and mourned by lonely, brokenhearted losers – like yourself,” she replies, heading toward her room with her bear box and garment bag in tow.

Kurt’s head snaps up when her comment sinks in, and he glares daggers at Santana’s back.

“Not having a boyfriend does not make me a loser, Satan,” he calls after her.

She stops at her bedroom door, turning just her head to face him.

“No, but not getting laid kind of does.” She smirks triumphantly, tossing her hair back over her shoulders, then slips into her bedroom to get ready for the night.

Kurt rolls his eyes, returning his attention to his pinned-down pattern.

“Tell me again why I let you live with me,” he mutters, pulling out his Gingham sewing shears and starting to cut.

Santana’s bedroom door opens a crack and she peeks her head out.

“Because you love me,” she chirps, then pulls her head back in and shuts the door again.

Kurt furrows his brow. Her ability to hear through walls is almost occult. Santana says it’s because she’s Latina.

Kurt contends it’s because the eyes and ears of the Dark Lord lurk everywhere.

Kurt has his entire jacket lining and most of the shell pieces cut when Santana emerges from her room again, wearing startlingly high blood red stiletto heels and a red Calvin Klein mini dress that hugs her figure everywhere.

She doesn’t bother to ask Kurt how she looks. She knows she looks fabulous.

She walks out to the living room carrying her purse, her coat, and the bear carrier. Setting her things down on the kitchen table, she opens the box to double check the bear inside – a special fluffy white one covered in pink and red hearts that she made special for her girlfriend. She hears an irritated grunt come from the foot of the sofa and she peeks over, spotting Kurt still on the floor, pinning yet more fabric.

His hands shake, his hair is a mess, and he looks way more pale than normal. She watches him try to manipulate a pin through a joined seam. It slips into the fabric easily, but with his fingers trembling, he pricks himself accidentally in the thumb. He hisses, a pathetic mewl escaping his throat.

If any man needed to get laid, it was Kurt Hummel.

“So, you’re really not going to go out?” Santana asks, a thread of concern hidden somewhere underneath her tone of disappointment.

“Santana,” Kurt says sternly, putting down his box of pins and blowing a long, frustrated breath through his clenched teeth, “I am going to college on a full scholarship… _full_ scholarship…won entirely based on my designs for this fall line that I am desperately trying to finish. That translates to _I don’t get to have a social life_.”

Santana pauses, watching a dejected Kurt sink back on his heels, wishing there was something she could do.

“Well, you’re missing out,” Santana says, not as sharply as her usual comebacks. She kisses the teddy bear lightly on the nose and packs it back into its box, smiling as she imagines Brittany’s face when she opens it.

“I sincerely doubt it,” Kurt mumbles, bending back down over his pattern.

Santana looks at Kurt, sparing one last thought for his current predicament – wound up tight with no hope of release - and suddenly she smiles.

“Well, I’m out,” she says, shrugging on her coat. “Don’t wait up.”

“Make good choices,” Kurt calls out as his way of saying good-bye.

“You know I won’t,” she says as she quickly leaves the apartment, cell phone in hand.

Kurt hears the lock on the door click and her footsteps fade down the hallway. With her gone, he’s totally alone.

Now he is free to throw the fit he’s been holding in.

He reaches an arm behind him, groping at the sofa for a throw pillow. His hand touches one and he grabs it, shoving it over his face and biting down on it hard – hard enough that his whole body shakes and his jaw starts to ache. All of this anger is pointless. It’s his own damn fault that he’s in this position. What made him think that he could pull this off anyway? Most people in the design department are working in teams. He’s the only one putting together a complete fashion line alone. There’s no way he’s going to complete these last fifteen suits on time. He’s creeping closer and closer to being over budget. To top it off, he left his adjustable dress form in the costume studio, and he couldn’t convince any of the volunteer models to stop by tonight for a fitting.

 _Bastards_.

He can make the suits and fit them to the models later, no problem, but without his dress form, it makes his job that much harder.

He doesn’t need harder. He needs easy.

He needs help.

Kurt tosses the abused pillow back up on the sofa.

“I just…I just have to plow on through,” he says, trying to give himself a pep talk, feeling vaguely pathetic in the process. “No more pouting. No more distractions. I can do this…I can do this…eyes on the prize…”

Bent over an intimidating amount of black suit fabric, the next two hours crawl by. Kurt has pinned the lining to the shell of the jacket four times, but it still isn’t exactly right – not by his standards. He wishes he wasn’t such a frickin’ perfectionist – that good enough could be exactly that. But he needs these suits to be flawless – inside and out – if for nothing other than his own sanity. He grips his measuring tape tightly in his fist and groans, beyond broken and about ready to throw in the towel.

“A break,” he says under his breath. “I need…I need a break.” He unwinds his cramping fingers from his crushed tape measure and shoves the mangled thing in his pocket. He rubs his eyes, blinking away the spots of pinstriped Merino wool and cashmere floating in his vision. “A little wine, a little cheesecake…” Kurt says, grimacing as he straightens his aching knees - stiff and locked in place from having them bent underneath him for hours. “Okay, maybe a _lot_ of wine…”

He rubs the muscles of his thighs, mentally trying to convince his knees to play nice and bend, when he hears a staccato _knock-knock_ on his door. Kurt stops and stares, stunned that someone would actually show up at this hour on Valentine’s Day.

 _Maybe it’s one of the models_ , he muses, putting some weight on his left leg in an effort to answer the door, but his knee wobbles, and he slides back to the floor.

 _Fuck it. Not happening_. _Probably not them anyway_ , Kurt thinks, going back to rubbing his leg. He hears the knock again and decides he can ignore it. He’s not expecting anybody. All he needs is for some sentimental ex to show up drunk on his doorstep just because they’re lonely and it’s Valentine’s Day.

It’s happened once, and he’s not eager for it to happen again.

No, if he ignores whoever it is knocking at his door, they’ll eventually go away.

 _Knock-knock_.

Kurt looks up at the door, as if insulted that it would allow itself to be knocked upon after he had just made the decision not to answer it.

 _Knock-knock_.

“Hello?” a voice sings through the locked door. “Is anybody home?” Kurt’s ears perk up at the sound of that voice – melodious and smooth – crooning at him from out in the hallway. “Hello?”

Kurt’s heart skips.

It’s a _very_ sexy voice.

It makes Kurt curious to see if it belongs to an equally sexy man - a man who is most likely knocking on the wrong door, but Kurt is on a break, so there’s no harm in helping the man out before Kurt gets plastered and tries to match seams.

“Just a…just a minute,” he calls, struggling to stand up, fighting once he does to negotiate with feet that fell asleep hours before and refuse to work right. “I’m coming.” Kurt grabs at chairs, tables, anything he can reach to help him make his way across the room. He hobbles straight-legged to the door, arriving unscathed, and in his head he cheers. Eager to see the mysterious lost man, he hurries to unlock the lock. He turns the knob, opens the door, and when it swings open, he almost immediately falls to the floor.

“Whoa, hold on there,” the sexy voice says, chuckling. A hand reaches out and grabs Kurt by the upper arm. Fingers wrap around his bicep, catching Kurt before he hits the ground. Kurt looks up instinctively at the touch, and locks eyes with the man at the door – probably one of the most handsome men Kurt has ever seen in his life.

Yeah, he definitely has the wrong apartment.

Well, shit.

“Uh…I’m sorry,” Kurt says, standing with the man’s help and leaning against the door frame to maintain his waning balance, “my legs…I’ve been on my knees all day…” Kurt cuts himself off short when the man standing before him snickers. That did not come out the way he intended. “I mean…what I meant to say is…can I help you?”

“I’m looking for Kurt Hummel,” the man says, his voice sliding to a slightly lower register when he asks, “Are you Kurt Hummel?”

Kurt opens his mouth to speak, but absolutely nothing comes out. The man raises an eyebrow and smiles, one corner of his mouth lifting in a sultry, lopsided grin.

“Uh, yes...yes, Kurt,” Kurt stutters. “That’s me. I’m Kurt. You’re…here to see me?”

“Yes,” the man answers. “I’m here to see you. I’m your escort for the evening.” At the word _escort_ , Kurt’s eyes open wide, and the man introducing himself laughs. “My name is Blaine. Blaine Anderson. I hope I’m not too late.”

Throwing all tact and decorum out the window, Kurt looks him over, from his black kidskin leather shoes, up the legs of his Armani suit, to his arms crossed over his chest, displaying his biceps to their full effect as his muscles strain the fabric. But it’s his sly smile and his devilish whisky colored eyes that have Kurt captivated. They tempt him, lure him, trying their best to seduce him, and the two men have only just met. Blaine crosses one foot over the other as he continues to stand casually at Kurt’s door, as if he has all the time in the world to let Kurt look him up and down.

Kurt knows he didn’t call for an escort, but he also can’t shake the feeling that he has seen this man before.

But he couldn’t have. He’d remember that voice – that sinfully rich voice.

“Do I…do I know you?”  Kurt asks anyway, peering back at Blaine with questioning eyes.

“No,” Blaine reassures him with a hiccup of a laugh, something in his confident demeanor slipping by a hair. “You don’t know me.” He reaches into his coat pocket, pulls out a black business card, and hands it to Kurt. Kurt plucks it from between Blaine’s fingers and holds it up in front of his eyes to read the gold-embossed letters.

“Hearts and Kisses Escort Service?” Kurt reads aloud. “There must be some mistake.” Kurt looks back at Blaine’s face, searching for answers. “I didn’t call any escort service.”

“Well, someone called my company and hired me for tonight as an escort for one Kurt Hummel,” Blaine says, not moved by Kurt’s objections. “You’ve already admitted to being Kurt Hummel, so that means I’m yours for the evening.”

Kurt cocks an eyebrow.

“And what does that entail exactly?” Kurt asks, the question dry, not in the least bit suggestive. “What are you here to do?”

“Anything you want me to,” Blaine says, his grin growing wider, incredibly suggestive.

“Be specific,” Kurt demands. Blaine smiles more genuinely, looking a bit flustered.

“I could take you out to dinner,” Blaine says.

“I…I’ve already had dinner,” Kurt stammers.

“Well, then,” Blaine says, inching closer, looking up at Kurt through enviably long lashes, “if you invite me in, I can make you dessert.”

Kurt swallows hard at Blaine’s turn of phrase, and at his honey-hazel eyes that look at Kurt as if the thing Blaine wants to have for dessert is _him_.

The ringing of Kurt’s cell phone interrupts his thoughts, erasing the quick but enticing image that he suddenly had of Blaine licking whipped cream off of his abs, tongue lapping at his skin, following a trail of melting cream lower and lower...

“Uh…that’s mine,” Kurt says. He fishes his cell phone out of his pocket and flips the phone over in his hands to check the number on the screen.

 _Unavailable_.

Great.

Kurt stares at the screen and contemplates his next move. Usually Kurt lets unknown calls go straight to voice mail, but he needs a moment to regroup…and to let his body cool.

A drunken wrong number might be just the ticket to killing the uninvited hard-on he’s developing.

Kurt answers the call, but before he can say _hello_ , a wave of loud music blasts through the phone, nearly puncturing his eardrum.

“Hello?” Kurt answers suspiciously, holding the phone a safe distance from his ringing ear. Intermingled with the music, which is asinine and incoherent, he hears a familiar voice giggling on the other end of the line, and another voice shushing.

Drunken – yes.

Wrong number - he only wishes.

“Santana!” Kurt growls, inferring the identity of the mystery caller and her possible connection to the man standing at his door.

“So, do you like your present?” she slurs, sounding way too drunk and excessively proud of what she’s done.

“Santana, I’m going to...”

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” she cackles, disconnecting the call and leaving Kurt standing with his cell phone in his hand, gaping like an idiot at the handsome man darkening his door.

“So, do I get to come in?” Blaine asks, his voice barely cutting through the cloud fogging Kurt’s brain. Kurt finds presence of mind enough to close his gaping mouth and clear his dry throat. He looks Blaine over one more time, trying to decide what to tell him. He _can’t_ employ the services of a male escort, no matter how gorgeous the man is – or how lonely Kurt has been. It’s a feeling he’s managed to shove aside for the sake of his work, but it’s always kind of been there, no matter what he tells himself. Regardless, he kind of sees one-night stands as immoral and maybe a bit slutty (for lack of a better or more acceptable word).

But something about the way Blaine looks at him - the way he focuses on Kurt’s mouth, the way he licks his lips, the way he smiles wider and wider with every confused and anxious face Kurt pulls - that makes Kurt _want_ to be immoral, just this once.

Kurt’s eyes trail down to the floor and along the way he notices the cut of Blaine’s dark suit, the way his slacks hug his muscular legs and his trim waist, the way the tailor docked the hem of the pants above Blaine’s shoes.

There’s something about a handsome man in an expertly tailored suit that makes Kurt’s stomach perform somersaults. 

And that thought suddenly gives Kurt an idea that fills him with an incredible sensation of euphoria.

Blaine might actually turn out to be the best Valentine’s Day present that Santana has ever given him.

“What size are you?” Kurt asks, stepping out into the hallway and examining the seams running down Blaine’s pants, tugging at the hem of his coat to straighten the line of the fabric over his back. He pulls out the measuring tape from his pants pocket and starts measuring Blaine’s arm from his shoulder to his elbow, then to his wrist.

“Uh, I’m a 38 regular,” Blaine answers, his voice changing, caught off guard by Kurt’s sudden interest in his suit. “Why?”

“I think I might have some use for you after all,” Kurt says with a grin, sneaking a hand around Blaine’s tie and tugging the confused escort into his apartment.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Written for the Klaine Advent Drabble prompts fall, grace, harmony, imprint, jukebox, kindred, legacy, midnight, needle, occasion, please, rent, scarf, and twist. Warning for mention of Finn's death.

Kurt pulls Blaine into the apartment behind him and closes the door. He’s almost giddy. Done. With Blaine’s help, he could conceivably get this done. He giggles to himself as he sets his plan in motion.

“Take off your coat,” Kurt instructs his makeshift model, outlining in his head everything he needs to get done and prioritizing – _pin the pieces, match the seams, check the drape, adjust the bias…_

“Where do you want me?” Blaine asks, slipping out of his coat and hanging it over the back of one of Kurt’s vintage flea market chairs, his naturally sensuous voice dripping ludicrous amounts of sex appeal with his attempt at seduction. Kurt stops organizing his mental checklist and lifts his eyes to meet Blaine’s gaze, glowering in disgust when he sees Blaine’s hazel eyes sliding luridly over his body, shamelessly devouring every subtle curve. Kurt crosses his arms over his chest and taps his toe loudly on the wood floor.

“Look,” he says in a sharp tone that instantly redirects Blaine’s attention from his unsolicited gawking, “I just…I have to ask - I know that Santana hired you, and I know _why_ she hired you, but did you really expect to come over here and have sex with me?”

Blaine jerks his head back, again thrown of his guard, but he recovers quickly, retorting with a smug grin, “That’s usually the way these things work.”

Kurt sighs and shakes his head, chuckling out of exasperation instead of from any real amusement. He doesn’t have time for jokes – or for flirting with this admittedly adorable albeit arrogant man.

“Well, here’s the deal,” Kurt says in his no-nonsense voice, “you are about to earn the easiest paycheck of your life. All I need you to do is stand in the center of the living room with your arms out so I can finish putting together my suits.”

Blaine nods in understanding, but his smile doesn’t budge, which makes Kurt fume.

“You look tense, though,” Blaine says, leaning a hip against the kitchen table and crossing his feet at the ankles, trying unnecessarily hard, Kurt thinks, to go for the casually sexy look. “Are you sure there isn’t something else I can do for you? Maybe a massage?”

On any other day, in any other situation, Kurt would laugh off the ridiculous way that Blaine is trying to toy with him. He could even forgive Blaine if Blaine wasn’t wasting Kurt’s precious time. Wasting time, to Kurt, is a sin, and Blaine’s infractions are steadily piling up.

“I have fifteen suits I wanted to have finished before midnight,” Kurt says, panic raising his voice a touch, “and at this rate I won’t be done till July!”

Blaine’s face pales, his smile slipping, but Kurt has stopped looking at him, staring down helpless at his hands. Kurt doesn’t notice the shift in Blaine’s attitude, the way he backpedals, modifying his approach.

“Kurt,” he says, pushing off the table and stepping over to him. “Kurt, I’m…”

“You said you would do anything I wanted,” Kurt interrupts, his voice shaking, not looking for apologies, “so can you just do this for me? Please?” Kurt runs his hands through his hair and then buries his face in his palms, breathing deep, on the verge of hyperventilating. Nothing is going right. Even when he thinks he has the answers, even when he finds a way of making things work, it all falls apart. Maybe designing his own line was a mistake. Maybe he isn’t cut out for this. Look at how badly he handles pressure? That can’t be good for a designer. He used to think that his strive for perfection, his diva attitude, his short fuse, were all a sign of hidden genius and incredible passion.

Maybe it’s just the sign of him being a failure, or worse - a wannabe.

He takes a long breath in and lets it out slowly. He gets no answer to his question but he doesn’t hear the door open and close so he knows that Blaine is still there, watching him have a meltdown. As he continues to breathe, trying his best to calm down, he realizes how much he sounds like a spoiled brat. He takes one last cleansing breath and dares to look up. Blaine stands before him, his lips pushing down at the corners, hazel eyes full of concern…and possibly a tad hurt.

“Blaine, I’m sorry,” Kurt says with a sigh. “I’m stressed out and…”

“No…no you’re right,” Blaine cuts in. “You already turned me down. I should learn to take a hint, huh?” He follows his rhetorical question with a self-depreciating chuckle that tugs at Kurt’s heart. _This_ is the real Blaine, not the over-actor from before pulling out all the lame and cheesy stops to get Kurt’s clothes off.

The _real_ Blaine seems like a man that Kurt wouldn’t mind getting a chance to know.

Kurt puts a hand on Blaine’s shoulder and squeezes gently.

“I’m jumping to assumptions,” Kurt says. “You don’t have to stay and help me. I know this isn’t what you signed up for. You must have something better…”

“No, no,” Blaine rushes out before Kurt can continue. “I want to stay and help you.” Kurt raises an eyebrow at Blaine’s reaction, confused as to why a male escort would be eager to help him with his suits. Maybe working as a male escort isn’t as fun and exciting as swinging 70s movies make it seem.

Still, Blaine’s reaction is a bit of an _over_ reaction, and Kurt can’t escape the feeling that he’s seen Blaine somewhere before. He just can’t put a finger on where.

“I mean,” Blaine says, putting a subdued version of his cocky grin back on his face, “your friend already paid, and I have nothing else to do for the next few hours. Let me stay and help you out.”

“A-ha,” Kurt says suspiciously. Santana _did_ pay for this, which meant that she’s behind Blaine being there…which also meant there’s a chance that none of this it what it seemed.

“You mentioned dinner. Are you hungry?” Kurt gestures with his hand towards the living room and Blaine gets the hint, walking in the direction of the sofa. He rounds the end and stops when he sees the patterns and fabric laid out on the floor.

“Maybe a little,” Blaine says, eyes glued to the half-sewn jacket waiting for him to help fit it, “b-but I don’t want to put you out or anything.”

“It’s no biggie,” Kurt comments, opening the refrigerator door and perusing the shelves. “I cook all my meals on Sunday night, that way all I have to do is heat them up during the week, and I always make extra because I know my roommate’s going to steal half anyway.”

“Wow,” Blaine says with an appreciative smile, “you sound organized.”

“I try,” Kurt says, feeling more at ease with this polite back-and-forth conversation than with the obnoxious flirting. “We have salmon roulade, chicken marsala, jambalaya…”

“That all sounds great,” Blaine says, “but I don’t want to eat into any more of your time by having a full meal…so to speak.”

“How about this…” Kurt pulls out a block of cheese and a bag of grapes from the crisper, and arranges them on a mahogany board, “I’ll bring out a fruit and cheese platter and a glass of white wine, and whenever you want a bite, let me know and I’ll feed you.”

“I think that sounds perfect,” Blaine answers, smiling down at his feet. Kurt bites his lip when he glimpses Blaine’s cheeks color at the mention of Kurt feeding him. Kurt opens a bottle of chardonnay and pours Blaine a glass.

“Now, I know that most people like to pair strong red wines with firm cheeses,” Kurt says, carrying the wine along with the platter into the living room, “but I prefer a nice dry white, especially with the grapes to highlight all those fruity tones.” He sets the platter on an end table at the arm of the sofa, but hands the glass to Blaine. “Besides, it won’t do as much damage if you accidentally spill.”

“Thank you,” Blaine says, accepting the glass. Raising it to Kurt in a silent toast, he takes a sip. “So, you design clothes, you know wine, you cook, you sing. You’re a real Renaissance man.”

“I guess.” Kurt picks up a cube of cheese and offers it to Blaine, who smiles and opens his mouth obediently like a baby bird for Kurt to pop it inside. “I didn’t know anyone used that term anymore.”

“My dad uses it all the time, but about me,” Blaine confesses, taking another sip of wine and losing himself in the glass. Kurt frowns as he watches Blaine down the wine, getting the feeling that when Blaine’s dad uses that term to describe Blaine, it doesn’t sound like a compliment.

“Alright, arms out,” Kurt says, removing the empty glass from Blaine’s fingers. “Try not to move.”

Blaine puts his arms out, his smile happily returning. Kurt picks up the jacket and slips the sleeves over Blaine’s arms, inching it on him carefully to avoid sticking him with the pins.

“Renaissance man,” Kurt repeats, then furrows his brow. “How do you know I sing?”

Blaine doesn’t answer right away, and from the corner of his vision, Kurt can see Blaine’s eyes dart around furiously.

“Those pictures on your wall,” Blaine says. “Show choir?”

“Yup,” Kurt says, tugging the front edges gently to check the fit around Blaine’s waist. “The not-so-much-pride of McKinley High School, located in backwater Lima, Ohio.” Kurt scoffs, “I’m so glad I’m out of there.”

“Lima, Ohio?” Blaine asks, his face brightening. “I’m from Westerville.”

“Wow,” Kurt says, taking his tape measure out of his pocket and re-measuring the waist of the coat. “Small world.”

“Yeah,” Blaine agrees. “We’re almost kindred spirits.”

Kurt rolls his eyes, but affectionately.

“Well, from a distance, at least,” he agrees.

Blaine goes silent while Kurt moves the tape measure up around Blaine’s chest. Kurt can feel Blaine watch him, and he ends up measuring Blaine’s chest twice when the tape measure slips out of his hands. He moves the tape measure up to check the length of Blaine’s shoulders when he looks into Blaine’s face, inches from his own, and catches Blaine’s gaze. Those hazel eyes – honey-gold with flecks of auburn - stare at him in a way that makes Kurt’s heart slam in his chest.

“Is there something wrong? Do I have something on my face?” Kurt asks, averting his eyes and making a joke to mask what that look from those eyes does to his body.

“Uh…I…no, there’s nothing on your face,” Blaine says with a nervous laugh – one sweet and sincere that doesn’t help Kurt’s situation any. “I was just noticing that you make the most interesting faces while you concentrate.”

“Really?” Kurt asks, going back to his measuring when all he really wants to do is stare into Blaine’s eyes until things like school and deadlines and stress become meaningless.

“Yeah,” Blaine says, following Kurt as he starts measuring his wrists. “Your brow wrinkles, you scrunch your nose, and you bite your lip…”

Kurt lets his lips part, realizing in that second that he’s biting his lip. Kurt straightens, pulling at the hem of the jacket.

“So, do I get a bite now?”

Kurt’s head snaps up, his eyebrows shooting straight up to his hairline.

“Ex…excuse me?” he asks softly.

“A cheese cube,” Blaine answers. “You said to tell you…”

“Right, right, right…” Kurt stutters, turning back to the cheese platter beside the sofa. He plucks a cube of cheese from the plate, walks back to an awaiting Blaine, and places the cheese up to his mouth. Blaine opens his mouth and takes the cube gently between his teeth, suppressing a smile when Kurt gasps.

Kurt watches Blaine chew his cube of cheese, eyes focused on how his mouth works, his tongue sweeping across his lower lip.

“You know, I think I could get used to this,” Blaine says after he swallows.

“Did you…want some more wine?” Kurt asks, trying not to openly stare, captivated by Blaine’s mouth.

“Please,” Blaine says. He watches Kurt pick up the empty wine glass and head back to the kitchen, his eyes drifting down Kurt’s back to his ass, moaning in his head at the fluid way Kurt moves. “Do you still sing?” Blaine calls after him, needing the distraction of conversation as a way of keeping his mind off Kurt’s incredible body.

“Every once in a while,” Kurt answers, pouring Blaine a second glass of wine. “Jukebox karaoke mostly, down at a place called _Callbacks_ in The Village. You been?”

“Yeah,” Blaine says, “uh…maybe once or twice, I think.”

Kurt nods, wondering if that’s why Blaine looks familiar. They could have run into each other there.

Kurt returns with the wine and Blaine moves an arm to reach for it, but Kurt quickly puts a hand out to stop him.

“Don’t move,” Kurt scolds. “You don’t want to stick yourself.”

Blaine watches Kurt bring the glass to his mouth. When the chilled glass hits his lip, Blaine closes his eyes. Kurt tips the wine into Blaine’s mouth, and again Kurt is drawn to the way Blaine’s mouth moves, the way his throat moves, the way his lips purse to drink. He stops paying attention to what he’s doing and almost gives Blaine too much. He stops when he hears Blaine sputter.

“Oh my gosh, I am sorry…”

“That’s okay,” Blaine says with a laugh while Kurt runs to grab a napkin for him. Kurt returns with a blue fabric napkin from the kitchen and cleans away the dribbles of wine around Blaine’s lips, thinking for a second that if he had taken Blaine up on his offer at the beginning of the night, Kurt could be licking that wine up off Blaine’s chin right now.

After that, Kurt’s mouth becomes too dry to speak.

Kurt fits the jacket on Blaine in silence, trying his best to concentrate on his work and not the body beneath his fingertips, but it becomes difficult, especially when his fingers accidentally graze over Blaine’s abs, or he is forced to measure Blaine’s biceps for the umpteenth time to get the sleeves correct (sleeves that were perfect an hour prior).

“Tell me about these suits you’re working on,” Blaine says suddenly, and Kurt, threading his needle, misses the eye.

“Huh…come again?” Kurt asks, looking past his needle at Blaine, who’s rolling his wrists and shaking out his hands to get the blood circulation going again. “Oh...” Kurt puts his needle back in his tomato pin cushion and rushes over to help Blaine out of the coat. “I think you’ve earned a break.” Once he slips his arms out of the sleeves, Blaine breaths out with relief, shaking his arms, raising them above his head, and then letting them fall down at his sides.

“Thanks,” Blaine says, dropping down onto the sofa beside the tray of half-eaten, lukewarm cheese. Kurt sits on the opposite end with the coat in his lap and continues the task of threading his needle. “Tell me about these suits you’re making,” Blaine continues. “Is this a school project or…”

“It’s pretty much the ultimate school project,” Kurt says. Leaning forward and reaching a hand beneath the sofa, he pulls out a leather portfolio. He hands it over to Blaine, who wipes his hands on Kurt’s napkin from earlier and takes the leather book in his hands. “I’m attending college on scholarship, and keeping my scholarship relies entirely on this.”

“How good a scholarship, if you don’t mind my asking?” Blaine starts undoing the binding that holds the cover together.

“Pretty good,” Kurt says. “Full plus some extra. It pays for my classes and my books, with an allowance that covers studio costs. Since I do all of my work here, I use it to pay my rent.”

“Wow,” Blaine says, unable to hide how impressed he is. “I got a scholarship, too. It paid for one book, and I had to buy it used.”

Kurt laughs lightly, sewing his seam, peeking up every so often to watch Blaine open the portfolio and flip through the pages, his heart fluttering at Blaine’s drop-jawed, wide-eyed response to his designs.

“Kurt,” Blaine says, slowly turning the pages, examining the intricate details of Kurt’s designs, “these are incredible. These are all yours?”

“Yup.” Kurt sets the coat aside on the sofa arm and scoots closer to Blaine to look over his shoulder. “I’ve been working on these designs all through high school. God, some of them look so juvenile to me now.”

“Juvenile?” Blaine coughs out, his eyes landing on an elaborate floor length ball gown of midnight blue satin adorned with crystals he’s sure are hand-sewn, modeled by a beautiful young woman who looks like a modern day Grace Kelly. “How can you say that?”

Kurt laughs at Blaine’s shock.

“I guess I am a little overly critical of my own work.” Kurt reaches over and turns to a page toward the back – a page that looks professionally printed on cardstock with pictures of some of the finished suits and dresses, the word _Legacy_ written across the top in a crisp black script.

“I called my line _Legacy_ ,” Kurt points out in case Blaine can’t read the font (a few of Kurt’s friends weren’t thrilled with it when he showed the cover page to them, but Kurt liked it, so he kept it.)

“Legacy…like an homage to the great fashion designers of the past?” Blaine asks, turning back in the portfolio to where he left off, which makes Kurt smile.

“No, _my_ legacy,” Kurt says. He leans back on the sofa, resting his head on Blaine’s shoulder, missing when Blaine’s breath stops in his throat. “It’s part of the reason I was awarded my scholarship. I wrote an essay about…” Kurt stops, chewing on the next words waiting to be spoken. His scholarship essay was personal – one of the most personal things he has ever written. There was so much of _him_ in it – his fears, his hopes, his losses, his pain. His friends didn’t read it. He didn’t even let his father or stepmother read it. In fact, he didn’t tell anyone it existed. He’s barely known Blaine two hours and here he is spilling all his secrets. Blaine is easy to talk to. He seems to be genuinely interested in what Kurt has to say, and he doesn’t seem like one to judge. Kurt could be naïve, but he feels like he can trust Blaine. “I wrote an essay about losing my mom when I was eight, about my father’s heart attack when I was in high school, about my stepbrother passing away. I wrote about how that affected me, and how I wanted to make my mark, leave something behind. I want to make an imprint of my own on this world, you know? Especially since my stepbrother…he didn’t really have enough time to make one, and...”

Kurt sits up when he sees the water stain on Blaine’s shirt from the tears rolling down his cheeks. He raises a hand to his face to wipe the tears away but Blaine beats him to it, turning his way and catching a tear on his thumb. Kurt’s eyes follow Blaine’s hand, lifting the tear to his lips and kissing it away. Blaine’s hand returns to his cheek, and Kurt leans into it, tilting into the palm cradling his cheek.

“You’re so amazing, Kurt,” Blaine says, running his thumb over Kurt’s cheek. “I’ve never met anyone as amazing as you.”

Kurt ducks his head, hiding from the awe in Blaine’s eyes. He was never good at taking a compliment. Unfortunately, he can’t seem to make himself start now.

“H-how long did Santana pay for you to be here?” Kurt asks, leaning away from Blaine’s touch, trying to change the subject. “I wouldn’t want you to be late for…uh…someone else.”

“I don’t have anywhere else to be,” Blaine admits, backing off and giving Kurt space

“Really?” Kurt asks, taking up his sewing again, grateful to return back to normalcy. “Huh. I would think that you would have more…uh…clients tonight than any other night, considering the occasion.”

“Yeah, well, I’m relatively new to all this,” Blaine says. “Besides, I’m enjoying myself.”

“You’re enjoying playing human mannequin?” Kurt asks with a huff. “Instead of going out drinking and dancing?”

“I’m enjoying myself right here,” Blaine says seriously, “being with you.”

Kurt looks up from his sewing with shy eyes and a small grin.

“Okay,” he says, accepting Blaine’s answer. “If you don’t mind staying, I’d love the company.”

“I don’t mind,” Blaine says, sitting back against the arm of the sofa and popping another cheese cube into his mouth.

“Alright,” Kurt says. “Thank you.”

“Hey,” Blaine says with a playful wink. “Any time.”

***

Kurt’s eyes start to water, then they tear as he sews his last stitch into the last seam of the coat lying over his lap.

“There,” he sighs, smiling victoriously, “it’s finally finished…“

Kurt looks over at Blaine, sitting on the other end of the sofa, lifting up the coat for his approval. But Blaine’s eyes are closed, his head resting against the sofa arm, breathing softly. Kurt looks at the sleeping man with a fond smile. He doesn’t remember when Blaine fell asleep. The two of them were making idle chitchat while Kurt worked, talking about their favorite of the turn-of-the-century movies currently playing at the revival theater downtown, and then about auditions for the off-Broadway reprisal of _The Magic Man_. At some point after that, Blaine must have drifted off. Kurt remembers seeing Blaine yawn a few times, and then – silence. Kurt hadn’t minded. It had been a comfortable silence. Kurt usually has a problem with people _hanging out_ , especially when he’s working. But Blaine’s presence was different. It wasn’t an intrusion. Him being there was soothing,

Having Blaine there in the room with him was nice.

It was a variety of nice that Kurt missed.

Kurt looks into Blaine’s sleeping face and feels a sad knot bloom in his chest. He may not see Blaine after tonight. Blaine is an escort. Being with Kurt was his job – just a job. Kurt could definitely see himself falling for a sweet guy like Blaine – one that likes fashion, musical theater, old black-and-white Gary Cooper movies, singing karaoke. Kurt can picture the two of them on stage at _Callbacks_ , harmonizing to some upbeat Pop 40s hit or a Sondheim showtune. But dating a male escort – knowing what male escorts _do_ with their clients, what Blaine had been planning to do with him – Kurt doesn’t think that he’s strong enough to handle that. He wouldn’t want to share Blaine with anyone, even if it was _just a job_.

So a relationship between the two of them would probably never work.

Before Blaine leaves, Kurt wants something to remember him by.

Kurt rises carefully from the sofa so as not to wake him and drapes the finished coat on a chair across the room. He grabs his sketch book from an end table and opens to a blank page. He sits on the floor a short distance away from Blaine and, with his favorite charcoal pencil in hand, starts to draw. It’s been a long time since he’s drawn something for the pleasure of it. He’s glad that he has such a handsome subject to inspire him. He draws a quick portrait of Blaine, a torso view, adding to it the design for a coat that’s been knocking around his head, something not normally his style but that he had thought about experimenting with. With Blaine’s look – his retro 50s appeal – the style fits. He alters the design here and there to make it into a dinner jacket, something that would be constructed in a rich velvet fabric, maybe something in burgundy to offset Blaine’s eyes, which lean towards a shade of gold in the low light. Kurt adds a light, flowing scarf around his neck, the ends hanging over the lapels – a classic twist to accent the more contemporary design.

Kurt moves to his knees in front of Blaine, crawling forward to get a better look at some of the finer details of Blaine’s face – the curls that dip down onto his forehead, the shadows his eyelashes cast on the apples of his cheeks, the delicate curve that leads from his eyebrows to the slope of his nose, those entrancing lips, so full, so inviting.

They look like they’d feel incredibly soft against Kurt’s skin.

It’s been so long since Kurt has kissed someone.

Kurt doesn’t know why he does it. It’s not because he thinks he can get away with it. Maybe he doesn’t _want_ to get away with it. He doesn’t want to take advantage of Blaine, but Kurt needs to know. He leans in close, presses his lips lightly to Blaine’s, and kisses him. Blaine’s eyelids flutter open quickly, not quite as asleep as Kurt had assumed. Kurt jerks away, cheeks flaming red, rambling apologies. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Blaine. I shouldn’t have…I…”

Blaine grabs for Kurt’s hand before he can stand, and squeezing gently, he pulls Kurt back.

“Please,” Blaine whispers, his eyes flicking down to Kurt’s lips and back up to his eyes. “Please, don’t stop.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Written for the Klaine Advent Drabble prompts uniform, vacation, wedding, and year.

Kurt stares into Blaine’s pleading eyes, overwhelmingly conflicted. Kurt wants to kiss Blaine again, more than anything, but he also doesn’t want Blaine to get the wrong idea. He doesn’t want Blaine to think he kissed him because he could, because Blaine was paid to be there, paid to be intimate with him.

He wants Blaine to know that he kissed him because he wanted to.

When Kurt doesn’t go back to kissing him right away, Blaine begs again.

”Please, Kurt. Please, kiss me.”

Kurt needs to explain himself, but he has no words, and worst of all, he finds himself helpless against that plea in Blaine’s voice.

“Blaine…”

Kurt whispers his name as the start of an objection, but it’s swallowed when Blaine leans forward to kiss him, and God – his lips _are_ as soft as they look. They’re not only soft, they’re warm, and they fit against Kurt’s lips perfectly, as if Blaine was put on this Earth to kiss Kurt. Kurt struggles not to over-romanticize this kiss. Yes, Blaine is sweet and handsome and amazing, but Kurt can’t get too attached. Kurt figures it’s just that he misses this – intimacy, touch, physical attraction. Kurt’s body is aglow with it, every nerve waking up as if from a dead sleep in response to the way Blaine scratches his nails lightly down his back, and the magical things he does with his tongue. Whatever it is that’s happening to him, regardless of whatever reason he can come up with to explain it away, Kurt wants Blaine. It’s been coded in his mind these last few hours that Kurt wants him. Kurt can forget it all for one night. He can put aside his own stupid moral codes and the implications of Blaine’s job, and just have this one night of passion with Blaine.

That wouldn’t make him a horrible person…would it?

Kurt feels Blaine’s arms wrap around him, Blaine’s fingers sliding across his body erasing every single protest he can think to give.

“Oh, Kurt…” These two words are like a line around Kurt’s body, reeling him in, pulling at him until he’s standing from the floor and climbing onto the sofa over Blaine’s body. Kurt hears Blaine whimper, a small desperate note of surrender as Kurt lays his body down.

“Blaine…” Kurt’s kisses travel away from Blaine’s mouth and across his jaw, heading toward his neck. Blaine trembles with every touch of Kurt’s lips on his skin, and Kurt searches out those spots – those sensitive patches of skin that make Blaine shiver beneath him. Kurt breathes in as he sucks a mark into Blaine’s neck, smiling when Blaine tightens his hold around him and moans louder. Kurt never realized how potent a good old-fashioned make-out session could be. Blaine smells like cedar and cloves, and his skin is salty and hot beneath Kurt’s tongue. Everything about him – his scent, his moans, the touch of his skin, the taste of his mouth – makes Kurt high.

He could easily get addicted to kissing Blaine Anderson.

“Oh, Kurt,” Blaine moans, his mouth running away on him, rambling as if he has no choice, no will of his own as long as Kurt’s lips are caressing his skin, “I’ve wanted to kiss you for so long. I’ve dreamed about kissing you…so many times…”

The words soak their way into Kurt’s body, all the way to his blood, before he recognizes them. Even then, it takes nearly a minute until their meaning makes its way to his brain, and his mind, muddied by kisses and heat and his need to have this man naked underneath him, becomes crystal clear.

When it does, the fire growing inside him goes cold.

Kurt sits straight up, pulling away from Blaine’s embrace, and Blaine, staring up at him with pupils blown and lips swollen, looks sincerely frightened.

“Explain that to me,” Kurt demands, crossing his arms over his chest. Blaine reaches out for him, trying to take his hand, but Kurt pulls another inch away, needing a moment to catch his breath and give the blood in his body time to make the return trip back to his head. “Because I get the feeling that you know me, and to tell you the truth, you seem familiar, but I can’t remember ever seeing you before.”

Blaine’s body deflates beneath Kurt’s inquisitive gaze and his head drops to the side, his eyes looking down at Kurt’s legs still straddling his body.

“You _have_ seen me,” Blaine says with a heavy sigh, “you just haven’t noticed me before.”

Blaine moves to sit up and Kurt climbs off of him, taking a seat on the sofa so that Blaine can do the same, needing distance in order to make sense of this. Blaine stares down at his rumpled pants and the shoes that he had to borrow, which are actually a half size too small for his feet and have been pinching his toes all night. “I have a confession to make,” Blaine starts, lacing his fingers together and folding his hands in his lap. “I’m not really a male escort. I sit behind you in your History of Modern Art Class.” Blaine chuckles. “I’ve actually been sitting behind you since the beginning of the school year, though to be fair, I’m not sure you notice _anybody_ in that class. You don’t seem to pay much attention.”

Kurt feels the air escape his body – a cleansing breath of confusion and relief, but with a bit of annoyance, too. He can’t be too angry that Blaine lied about being a male escort. That confession opens the door to so many possibilities – possibilities that Kurt had been mourning mere moments before.

But if Blaine lied about that, what else has he been lying about?

“That art class is an elective,” Kurt explains with a shrug. “I was forced to take it, to fulfill some asinine liberal arts requirement, which I think is ridiculous considering my major.”

Blaine nods in agreement.

“Me, too.” Blaine gives a weak smile. “The first day of class, you showed up early. You were already sitting at your desk when I arrived and there was barely anybody else there. I saw you, and…” Blaine sighs, a dreamy look crossing his face, “but I didn’t talk to you because you were looking through a wedding magazine, and I thought maybe, you know…that you were engaged. But a few classes later, you were on the phone with someone talking about being set-up on a blind date, and I knew that you weren’t.” Blaine shakes his head. “God, I’ve wanted to ask you out for so long.”

Kurt remembers that day in class. He was arguing over the phone with Santana about some guy she tried to set him up with. He kept telling her no but she wouldn’t listen, pretending lamely that she was going through a tunnel and couldn’t hear him. Kurt ended up calling the guy himself and talking his way out of that date.

He knows beggars can’t be choosers, but Kurt couldn’t see himself dating a man who tested the effects of processed food additives on lab rats for a living.

“How do you know Santana though?” Kurt asks. “Usually when she finds out someone even thinks they might consider liking me, she tries to throw us together, but she hasn’t mentioned you. How did she know to come to you for this, or was that just a crazy coincidence?”

“Six degrees of separation,” Blaine says, still not looking up from his hands. “Her girlfriend Brittany is in a dance class I take…”

“You’re a dancer?” Kurt asks, swayed by the idea that this handsome, sensitive, romantic guy that he has so much in common with can dance, too.

“Yeah,” Blaine says, his worried expression melting a bit. “I’m a musical theater major, which should explain the crappy scholarship.”

Kurt laughs sympathetically. He had considered musical theater as a major. The extreme differences in the scholarships offered was one of the big reasons he stuck with design.

“So, I take it you’ve been to _Callbacks_ ,” Kurt says, affirming that suspicion. “And I take it you’ve _seen_ me at _Callbacks_. That’s how you knew I can sing.”

“Yeah,” Blaine admits quietly. “I went there with a group of other musical theater majors from school and I saw you. I went back a bunch of times, trying to get the nerve to talk to you.”

“That was quick thinking with the pictures, though,” Kurt mentions, trying to relieve some of the tension.

“Thanks.”

Kurt reaches out and puts a hand over Blaine’s hands. Blaine looks at their hands together, then follows the line of Kurt’s arm with his eyes till he reaches Kurt’s face.

“Please, Blaine,” Kurt implores. “Tell me everything. Tell me the truth.”

Blaine nods and lets his gaze drop back to their somewhat joined hands.

“That party Santana went to tonight? I was there.” Blaine sighs again as if the next confession out of his mouth would kill him. “I was delivering pizzas. She spotted me in my uniform and pulled me aside. She said you needed…uh…” Blaine blushes and Kurt smiles. It’s kind of hot how Blaine gets flustered so easily. “She said you needed a date. She knew that I liked you and asked me if I was down. I said yes. I mean, who wouldn’t be?”

Blaine peeks up and sees Kurt’s soft expression turn skeptical, eyelids narrowing and an eyebrow raised.

“She said I needed a _date_?” Kurt asks, knowing that Blaine was covering for whatever Santana really said. Kurt knows that Santana has no filter. She tends to be crass 24/7.

That means that Blaine, in his effort not to offend Kurt with a direct quote from the woman herself, is a real gentleman.

“Uh…sort of…I might be paraphrasing…” Blaine bites his lip and looks up at the ceiling, knowing that he’s trapped into telling the whole truth. “She said that…” He smiles steadily until his face hurts, and Kurt laughs again without needing to know the punchline. Blaine takes a deep breath to help him finish his sentence. “She said you needed some deep dicking, alright?” Blaine says quickly, breaking into a fit of nervous laughter with Kurt having his own break down beside him.

“Yup,” Kurt says, struggling to catch his breath. “That sounds like her alright.”

“B-but I wouldn’t have gone through with it,” Blaine bursts out unintentionally, his lips loosened by his unrestrained laughter, and Kurt’s laughing stops dead. Blaine groans, “Oh, God,” and chokes on the words crowding his mouth. “I mean…I would have, I _so_ would have. God, I would have…”

Kurt can’t help laughing again - the look of complete terror on Blaine’s face painfully ridiculous as he tries to explain himself, digging himself into a bigger and bigger hole with every syllable out of his mouth.

“Take a deep breath,” Kurt says, squeezing Blaine’s hand for support. Blaine stops talking and does as Kurt says, inhaling slowly and then exhaling, repeating again until his tongue unties.

“But, really,” Blaine continues, “I just wanted to spend time with you, get to know you, and this seemed like a good way.”

“Pretending to be a male escort was the best way to get you to my door?” Kurt asks with an edge of disapproval.

“I didn’t want to do it that way,” Blaine admits. “I didn’t want to lie to you. I would have preferred to tell you the truth from the beginning. Santana came up with the cover story about the escort service. She had the business card, found me the suit and these shoes…” Blaine winces, wiggling his strangled toes, trying to get rid of the numbing sensation that’s taking over. “She was pretty sure that if I showed up out-of-the-blue and asked you out, that you would immediately turn me away. I needed a hook to get you interested.”

Kurt wants to disagree, but he can’t. Santana knows him better than he gives her credit for.

“Oh, God,” Kurt says, his face falling, raising a hand to his lips. “She’s right. I would have.” Kurt takes in Blaine’s sad smile. What a change from the man who showed up unannounced on his doorstep. Blaine’s false Lothario image and his conceited attitude have completely stripped away, revealing an authentically nice guy who simply wanted a chance. A knot of guilt grows in Kurt’s chest and drops straight into his stomach. Kurt is not about to apologize to anyone for being dedicated to his work, but how many times had Kurt bemoaned the lack of _good_ _guys_ in New York? Guys that shared his interests? Guys that he could talk to? Guys that he might find a real connection with? And there one was, sitting behind him for an hour a day this whole time, and Kurt never noticed him. Kurt can’t remember ever turning around in that class…or looking up for that matter. The syllabus for History of Modern Art is fairly in depth. If attendance wasn’t mandatory (30% of his grade), he probably wouldn’t show up. “I’m sorry…”

“You’ve apologized to me a lot tonight,” Blaine interrupts politely, looking into Kurt’s eyes. “You’ve got to stop. I’ve had the best time, and I finally got to talk to you. I don’t know about you, but this was by far one of my best Valentine’s Days ever.”

“Yeah,” Kurt says, nodding. “Mine, too.”

Blaine doesn’t want to stop looking at Kurt, at that gorgeous smile of his aimed Blaine’s way, but if he doesn’t, he won’t find the courage to stand up and leave.

Blaine can’t help but feel that he’s overstayed his welcome. Maybe he won’t see Kurt again after this - outside of class, that is - but at least Kurt won’t hate him.

Hopefully.

“Well, I’d better get going,” Blaine says, disentangling their hands, frowning when he’s forced to let go. He runs his palms down his thighs and over his knees, smoothing out the wrinkles in his ruined slacks before he stands. “I don’t want to take up any more of your time. I know you’ve got all this work to do, and I don’t want to bother you…”

“Blaine…” Kurt grabs Blaine’s hand firmly in his and holds on, stopping him from saying another word. With confusion furrowing his brow, Blaine sits back down on the sofa, a renewed look of hope in his wide eyes. “You went through all of this just to meet me, to have the chance to get to know me. You’ve stood for hours, let me stick you full of pins, you’ve listened to me ramble…do you think I’m going to let you go that easily?”

Blaine’s brow furrows deeper.

“Wh---what…” Blaine stumbles. “I don’t understand. But I lied…”

“About being a male escort!” Kurt finishes, wondering fleetingly if they’re destined to turn into one of those couples that forever complete each other’s sentences. “I like you, Blaine, but I couldn’t date a male escort, and believe me, while you were asleep, I considered it. I really _really_ considered it.”

Blaine laughs, and it’s a laugh that Kurt knows he wants to hear more of.

“You know what I think?” Kurt asks. Blaine shakes his head in reply. “I think that I need a little vacation from all of this.” He waves his hand around, indicating the half-constructed coats needing to be finished, the suit pieces still on the floor waiting to be pinned and sewn, the patterns ready to be cut, the remaining bolts of fabric needing to be ironed.

“But, your suits…” Blaine argues, looking with dismay at the work left that Kurt needs to finish, the home-stretch of this project that means so much to him. “If we keep going, you can be done by the time the sun comes up.”

“I’ve got a few days. This can wait a little while.” Kurt stands up from the couch, taking Blaine’s hands and pulling him up along with him. “You see, I just met this great guy…” Kurt walks backwards with Blaine’s hands in his, leading Blaine through the apartment to his bedroom, “and I think I need to take a little time to get to know him better.”

Kurt stops in front of his door and reaches for the knob, but Blaine tugs on his hand to get his attention.

“Are you sure?” Blaine asks, then kicks himself mentally for asking. He looks at Kurt while he waits for an answer, praying he’ll still say _yes_.

“Oh, yeah,” Kurt says with a sly grin - a grin that makes Blaine’s sore toes curl. “But if you’re willing to help me finish my suits, we can do it in the morning…after I make you breakfast.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the Klaine Advent Drabble prompt 'zigzag'.

Kurt wakes up early – not as early as he had originally planned considering the massive amount of work he has to do, but still relatively early – to the sound of the front door slamming shut. He would bolt up and check on that, but he can’t move, the muscles in his body quite content to remain immobile regardless of whatever Kurt decides. And Kurt would usually be more than willing to obey and stay in bed, but there’s a problem.

There was someone with Kurt last night, someone he wanted to know better, but with the slamming of his front door, that man might have gone, and Kurt, stuck in his stupid bed, can’t go after him.

He feels drained, hungover, having gotten drunk off lack of sleep, adrenaline, and stress – a cocktail he’ll remember to pass on the next time it’s offered to him. Kurt tries to shimmy up the bed but he literally cannot move, locked in place by a weight pressing on his chest.

 _Fucking hell_ , Kurt thinks. _If I get sick now, I’m done._

Kurt blinks dry, sticky eyes, and looks around. His room is cool and dark, his curtains pulled tight to block the morning sun, but there’s a hot spot blooming on his chest, running down his torso, winding around his waist.

And it snores like a chainsaw.

_Craaawwwwwkkkkk!_

That noise, like the metal body of a derailed train grinding against cement, catches Kurt by surprise. It makes his head throb like no one’s business…but it’s a relief, too.

 _There you are_ , he thinks, relaxing underneath this weight that he realizes is a _person_.

_Crawk! Snork-snork! Craaaawwwwkkkkk!!!!_

Kurt snickers, biting his lip to stop himself before he starts laughing, knowing he’ll shake the bed and wake the adorable, curly haired sloth attached to his midsection.

_Craaaawwwwkkkk! Crawk-crawk! Snoooorrrrkkkkk!!!_

“Oh my God,” Kurt mutters quietly, wondering how in the world he managed to sleep thru that.

Then he feels Blaine’s body slide against his – Blaine’s _naked_ body – and he remembers.

Dear God, does he remember.

Kurt slept like a baby because after last night – and a good portion of this morning – he was so exhausted, the L train could have stopped in his room to let off passengers and he wouldn’t have even blinked.

Kurt sighs happily and lets his body sink into the mattress, the man on top of him snuggling into his chest.

It was one fucking fabulous night.

***

Kurt had been right. Kissing Blaine _was_ addictive. The feel of his lips, their texture, how incredibly soft they were – unbelievably soft. And Blaine – Jesus Christ. He was one hell of a kisser. His were the kinds of kisses Kurt dreamed of – the kind that left marks and made you crave more. The kind that, once you had them, you knew you couldn’t live without them, because every other kiss would pale in comparison.

And it wasn’t just Blaine’s kisses that were addicting. The noises he made when Kurt started unbuttoning his shirt and caressing his chest – Kurt could live off of those noises, thrive from them. The smell of his skin – so rich, so masculine, so complicated when Kurt took a deep inhale at the juncture of his neck – was something Kurt would like to bottle and carry with him…or wear on his own skin, covering him from head to toe. Even the scratch of his stubble against Kurt’s cheek, something that was one of Kurt’s biggest pet peeves with other men, felt downright sensual on Blaine.

Who knew that the man Kurt had been bitching about never finding was sitting behind him in class this whole time? Obviously not Kurt. He should look up from his magazines more often. What else was he missing? Unicorns? Circus acts? Three-headed dogs? If someone as incredible as Blaine could go unnoticed, then what else has Kurt been blind to?

Kurt was excited, so eager to get at Blaine, to have him, that he was rushing, nearly tearing Blaine’s clothes from his body without realizing that Blaine was almost completely undressed while Kurt hadn’t even removed his socks. Kurt got stuck at the button to Blaine’s slacks, ready to rip it off with his teeth if he had to, when Blaine caught his hand.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Blaine asked. “I mean, we could be rushing into things. Do you…should we take things slow?”

Kurt looked into Blaine’s eyes – nervous and anxious, but excited to be with Kurt, only there were doubts there holding him back.

“I thought about that,” Kurt said, pushing Blaine’s shirt open wider and running his nails lightly down his chest. Blaine’s head fell back, and then his body, until he became loose and pliant beneath Kurt’s fingertips. “But even if we don’t have sex now, I’ll want to do it tomorrow, and the next day, and the next day.” Kurt leaned forward to lick around Blaine’s nipple. Blaine grabbed at the sheets beneath him, and between Blaine’s legs where Kurt sat, his cock throbbed. “And why not?” Kurt whispered with another lick. “We’re both consenting adults. And we both want this…” Kurt sat up, for the first time noticing that _he_ was the aggressor here. _He_ was the one forcing this issue, with a questioning Blaine following behind. “Unless…you don’t want this?”

“No!” Blaine said, sitting up so quickly he almost bucked Kurt off his lap, making Kurt giggle. “No, I want this, I want this. I _soooo_ want this.”

Kurt bit his lip and slowly opened the zip to Blaine’s slacks.

“Can I ask you a question? I’m hoping you’ll be honest.”

“Anything,” Blaine said, staring hard at Kurt’s face even though he wanted to watch the hands toying with his zipper, brushing blissfully close to what lay underneath. Blaine didn’t want to be rude, didn’t want to be so goal oriented that he couldn’t look Kurt in the eyes while they talked, regardless of what his hands were doing, how sweetly they were torturing him, teasing him, driving him insane.

“This isn’t your first time, is it?” Kurt opened the fly to Blaine’s pants and rested his hand on the impressive bulge outlined beneath a thin layer of maroon cotton.

“No,” Blaine answered, his voice shuddering as the heat of Kurt’s hand bled through to his skin, “there have been other times.” Kurt started to stroke, two fingers working up and down the sides of his shaft through the fabric. “T-two others, actually.” Blaine gulped. “T-two uncomfortable, unfortunate, and d-disappointing others.” Blaine let his eyes wander. He couldn’t help it. He had longed for this moment. He wanted the full experience. “W-would it h-have mattered if it was?” Blaine asked, lifting up his hips to meet Kurt’s hand, begging for more.

“No,” Kurt said with a wicked smile, returning his attention to Blaine’s shirt, pushing it off his shoulders in an attempt to get Blaine completely naked. “But now that I know, let me try to make that up to you.”

Kurt made a meal of undressing Blaine, and Blaine ate it up, finally drumming up the courage to do the same when his underwear hit the floor. He stripped Kurt of his clothes a piece at a time, tracing the lines of his muscles, connecting freckle to freckle with light brushes of his fingertips, then going over the same paths again with his tongue.

They didn’t outright discuss what would happen next, or who would do what. It didn’t seem like they needed to. Blaine’s fingers traveled down Kurt’s body, and when they reached his lower back, Kurt took Blaine’s wrist and guided him where he wanted him. Blaine opened him up with careful strokes, gentle scissoring, watching Kurt writhe with a look of wonder that he could do this to Kurt, and that Kurt would actually enjoy it. Kurt found a condom (a relic of sex lives past that luckily had yet to expire) and gave it to Blaine, who put it on without question. Then Kurt climbed in Blaine’s lap, his body sliding smoothly over Blaine’s cock, and Blaine held Kurt close – impossibly close. They moved together, breathed together, Blaine rocking Kurt in his arms so he wouldn’t have to let him go.

It didn’t matter that hiding beneath his suit Blaine had an amazing body, a dancer’s body, with smooth, tan skin and lean, defined muscles. Or that, completely disrobed, he changed into a slightly different person – less shy, less submissive, more in control. It was the way he looked at Kurt that Kurt would always remember. The way his eyes shone up at Kurt every time he moaned, like Kurt was made of starlight and magic. And the way he kissed Kurt whenever Kurt came close, like he couldn’t get enough, like there would never be enough.

Like he’d been waiting for this moment forever.

Kurt didn’t know how long they sat on the bed and rocked together, didn’t register that, as little curls of pleasure rippled through him, his heart had started to race, and he had begun to sweat. Kurt felt taut and relaxed at the same time, at peace but on the cusp of something ecstatic, overwhelming. Blaine kept him there, balanced on the edge for so long that when Kurt came, it didn’t rip through him like an explosion or barrel through him like a train. It washed over him like the gentle swell of a wave rising, carrying everything along with it.

Blaine refused to be apart from Kurt. It took a while before Kurt could leave his lap. When he did, they lay in each other’s arms and Blaine touched Kurt, running his fingers over his skin, burying them in Kurt’s hair, following with kisses and whispers until every inch of Kurt tingled, so that by the time Blaine took the initiative to slip down Kurt’s body and sink his mouth over him, there wasn’t too much more he had to do to make Kurt come undone.

But as mind-blowing as sex with Blaine was, the real gift was falling asleep in his arms. After a long night of angst and turmoil and stressing over deadlines, which turned into talking and laughing and fooling around, all because Blaine was there – beautiful, wonderful Blaine…

Blaine was right. This _was_ the best Valentine’s Day ever.

***

Kurt hears a chair fall over from somewhere in the vicinity of the kitchen, but it’s the muffled _shit_! that follows that makes his hair stand on end.

There’s someone in the apartment. Someone broke in to their apartment. Of course, it could be Santana, but Kurt’s pretty sure it isn’t. She never explicitly said when he could expect her back. Then again, she never does. But her Friday nights with Brittany usually don’t end until Monday morning. Glancing over at the clock by his bedside, he checks the time.

10:30 a.m.

Yup, that’s _way_ too early for Santana, especially on a Saturday.

He lies still for a second longer and listens, but he doesn’t hear anything else. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe that sound wasn’t coming from the kitchen of _their_ apartment. Maybe it was coming from the apartment next door. The walls can be surprisingly paper thin when Kurt is trying to concentrate on studying or when he wants to sleep.

Their neighbor is a sleep moaner. They try to ignore it.

Well…Kurt tries to ignore it. Santana kicks the wall and makes inappropriate remarks.

Kurt hears the refrigerator open, the Perrier bottles on the door clanging together.

 _Fuck!_ It _is_ their apartment, and now Kurt’s going to have to do…something. He’s not sure what. He should at least lock the bedroom door in case said burglar has any intention of coming in. It may also behoove Kurt to peek out and try to see the burglar so he can report them to the police. His renter’s insurance is only going to cover so much, after all. And then there are his suits. How could he forget about his suits!? If some self-entitled prick so much as pops a single stitch on one of his suits, he won’t be calling the police to report a robbery.

He’ll be calling to report a murder.

Kurt starts to move, detaching himself from Blaine’s hold, but Blaine mumbles, “Nuh-uh,” and squeezes. Kurt smiles, touched by Blaine wanting to be near him, even in his sleep. Kurt hears the burglar close another door – Santana’s door – and that prompts him to put more effort into getting out of bed, because God knows that if a single one of Santana’s designer dresses goes missing, she’ll blame Kurt, armed robber or no. Kurt is honestly more upset at the fact that he’s going to have to get out of a comfortable, warm bed, and away from a comfortable, warm body than the idea that there’s a strange person in his apartment, possibly armed, stealing the television, and sticking their filthy fingers into his freshly made foie gras.

Kurt sighs. Why today, universe? Why give Kurt a smidgen of happiness and then throw a felon into the mix?

He’s halfway off the bed when it occurs to him that there _is_ another option. He feels like an idiot for not thinking about it before. All he has to do is find his phone and call the…

_Shit!_

He doesn’t have his phone. He left it in the living room. He’d been using it for the timer. And Blaine’s phone – Kurt saw him put it in the inside pocket of his jacket - a jacket that is draped over the arm of the couch.

_Double shit!_

Kurt continues his climb out of bed, gathering up wrinkled clothes and putting them on. He can’t just lie and wait for him and Blaine to be discovered. Whoever else is in the house _could_ be dangerous. He decides to take a look and go on from there. Maybe he can even get to his phone. He takes one last peek in the mirror, stopping a moment to fix his hair and his face. As moronic as it sounds, he doesn’t want to be seen by anyone, even a criminal, looking like he just rolled out of bed.

Even if he _did_ just roll out of bed – and it looks good on him, too.

Kurt smiles at his reflection, at his untamable sex hair and the bruises purpling on his neck.

He likes what he sees.

Kurt’s life has zigzagged so many times that, some mornings, when he wakes up and looks in the mirror, he hardly recognizes himself anymore. That’s not a bad thing, just a bit unexpected, especially since he can look at his reflection and see traces of all the people he once was. He can see the little boy of five who thought he would grow up to be a ballet dancer. He sees the slightly older boy at eight who wanted sensible heels for his birthday and had aspirations of becoming a royal. He sees the teenager in high school - bullied, confused, fighting to come out and find his own way. He sees the young man he was before he graduated – much stronger, more determined, much more assured of his path in life.

Then he sees the man he was before he met Blaine – still determined, still strong, but a lot less sure, and lonely.

Tremendously lonely.

Today he’s changed again, to a man with the potential to find love, something he didn’t see happening to him for a while.

He wants to be able to reflect on that more, appreciate it more, but now is not the time.

Kurt opens his door a crack, peering out with one eye to see the identity of the mystery thief, and make sure that he, or _she_ , hasn’t wrecked any of his hard work. He spots a silhouette, a _busty_ silhouette, sees a head of long, brown hair, and hears the familiar _click-click_ of high-heeled Louboutin knock-offs walking away from the kitchen.

It _is_ Santana.

He breathes a sigh of relief.

He can go back to bed, wrap himself in Blaine’s arms, and continue with their cuddling, secure that he’s not going to be murdered in his own home, but he finds himself stumbling out of his room, closing the door quietly behind him. He doesn’t know why, but he needs to have a word with her.

He catches Santana when she comes back out, a rollaway suitcase in tow, grabbing her coat and purse, and heading for the door.

Santana sees him from the corner of her eye and says, “I’m not here. I’m just picking up some things and heading with Britt-Britt to the coast.” She opens her purse and starts rooting through the contents, pulling out a couple of lipsticks and checking the names on the bottom. “So I’ll be gone all weekend. You know - out of your hair, in case you need to work…or if you plan to have any overnight guests.”

When she picks out the same tube of lipstick for the third time, Kurt knows that she’s stalling, waiting for him to give her details. She glances up and looks him over, a confused look in her eyes. He knows she’s trying to figure out if he fell asleep in his clothes from last night, or if there might be another reason he didn’t bother getting ready for bed. “You’re up earlier than I thought you’d be.”

“Well,” Kurt says, trying to pull off urbane and coming up bashful instead, “I _did_ promise the man breakfast.”

Santana beams.

“Yes,” she cheers, accompanied by a giddy shoulder shimmy. “I knew that guy would be good for you. You should listen to me more often.”

“Yeah, right. If I’d listened to you earlier, I might be married to Vlad the Rat Impaler.” Santana snickers, but Kurt remains impassive. “And about that…” Kurt crosses his arms and leans up against the front door. “I know what you did. The story about the escort service and…and everything.”

Santana straightens, ready to defend her actions, and Kurt has to work hard not to automatically put up his guard. One of the pitfalls of dealing with Santana is her Golden Rule - even when she’s wrong, she’s never wrong.

But at least this time she looks guilty.

“And?” Santana’s eyebrows raise, waiting for a lecture. And Kurt has a lecture prepared, about how even though this worked out with Blaine, it wasn’t right for her to toy with his love life, and Blaine’s love life for that matter. And normally if Kurt told her to keep her pointed Cruella nose out of his business, she would play it off, but not this time. Something in her eyes says different. Blaine got to her. Somehow, he got to her, and her playing matchmaker had as much to do with her own investment in seeing the two of them get together as it did with the typical, blanket excuse of _Santana’s always right_.

Kurt doesn’t let Santana suffer any longer, even if her expression is priceless.

“Thank you,” he says and smiles.

When her sly grin returns, Kurt is actually glad that he’s the one who put it there.

“So am I to take it that little man rocked your world last night?” Santana asked. “Or does your current state of sloppy dress mean that you ate some cookie dough, popped in _Mamma Mia!,_ and had the gay man’s version of a slumber party?”

“I’m not going to kiss and tell, Santana,” Kurt scolds, diverting his eyes when his cheeks start to burn.

“Come on,” she says, poking a manicured nail under his arm to torture it out of him, “you know you want to…”

Kurt looks at the ridiculous smile on her face, and he can’t help himself. Maybe he owes it to her.

He’ll never admit it, though.

“If you’re referring to the _deep dicking_ you told him I needed, then yes. Yes, he did.” And as thankful as he is, he can’t leave it at that. They wouldn’t be Kurt _and_ Santana if he did. The future of their relationship depends on one or both of them acting like a bitch. “But I’m warning you - mess with my love life again, and your shoe collection is going to meet with an accident.”

“If that’s how you feel, Hummel, fine,” she says, putting her hands up in surrender, but with a satisfied and smug expression on her face. “But if I’m right about this - and you and I both know I’m _always_ right - I’ll never have to mess with your love life again.”

Kurt nods. He sincerely hopes not.

“Good,” he says. “Now that we have that settled, get out of here before you wake him up, you banshee.”

“I’m going, I’m going,” she says, shouldering her purse and grabbing the handle to her suitcase. “Go, feed your man, have lots of sex, send us vids when you make ‘em…”

“Santana,” Kurt says, shooing his roommate out the door. “Good-bye.”

“Oh, and Kurt…” Santana turns in the hallway, Kurt figures, for one last X-rated dig.

“What?” he asks, putting a hand on his hip, waiting to get this over with.

“I’m happy for you.” She reaches up to pat his cheek, then turns and takes off down the hallway.

For a second, Kurt is stunned. He doesn’t know when it happened, when exactly he and Santana became friends. They weren’t really friends when they moved in together – or when she showed up on his doorstep one day, walked in, took over the room he had planned to make his sewing room, and then never left. They just kind of tolerated one another, and as long as they didn’t have to spend copious amounts of time around each other, that arrangement suited him fine.

She hasn’t told him yet, but Kurt knows that she’s talking with Brittany about moving in together. Every day, more and more of Santana’s things walk out of their apartment and don’t return.

But only now does he start to think he might miss her when she’s gone.

His stomach growls, reminding him that he’s standing in the open doorway of his apartment, staring at an empty hallway. It’s already mid-morning, and he’s wide awake. He could make himself some breakfast and wait for Blaine to get up on his own, but he doesn’t want to be alone. Not after that conversation with Santana. He throws together another tray of fruit and cheese. He adds some cold potato pancakes, a glass of orange juice, a small bowl of nuts – finger foods they might be able to feed one another if they decide to go for round six.

He carries the tray into his bedroom and finds Blaine awake, but only by seconds, sitting up in bed with his hand to his face, rubbing his eyes. He looks as handsome as ever, even with the addition of his mop of curls creating a wild, frizzy halo on top of his head.

“Hey, sleepy head,” Kurt says, carrying the tray over to the bed.

“Hey,” Blaine says with a smile, until he sees that Kurt’s already dressed. “Are you…do you need to go somewhere? Do you want me to leave?”

“No,” Kurt says, setting the tray down. “No, I…I heard a noise, and I thought there was a burglar.”

Blaine looks at Kurt’s wrinkled clothes and his brow draws together.

“So…you got dressed and went out there?”

“Well…yeah,” Kurt says sheepishly. “I’ll admit it wasn’t one of my wiser decisions. But it wasn’t a burglar. It was just my roommate.”

Blaine sits up a bit more.

“Santana?”

“Yup,” Kurt says, sitting on the bed and picking out a blueberry to eat.

“So, she’s here?” Blaine asks, disappointed that he might not get Kurt to himself.

“No, she just came back to get a few things,” Kurt says, picking out a blueberry to feed to Blaine. “Apparently she’s going to be gone for the weekend. You know…to give us some time alone.”

Blaine stops chewing and swallows.

“That’s…well…um…nice of her.”

“It is,” Kurt says. “Proof that miracles _do_ happen. Though to be fair, I think her and Brittany are going apartment hunting. I may find myself with an empty room soon.”

“Oh,” Blaine says. “Will you be looking for another roommate? I mean, is that something you need, or can you handle things on your own?”

Kurt eats a cube of cheese, chewing while he thinks of an answer.

“I can hold down the fort on my own for a while,” he says. “Though, it would be nice to have someone move in, in a couple of months or so. Give me the time to find the right person.”

Kurt’s eyes flick Blaine’s way for a second, then go back to the tray.

Blaine nods, watching Kurt pull a grape from the bunch, twisting it between his fingers to get it free of the stem.

A couple of months. See where they are in a couple of months.

When Blaine put on that suit last night and showed up at Kurt’s door, he never dreamed of any of this.

“So, should we do something to thank her?” he asks, opening his mouth when Kurt offers him the grape.

“Well, a sacrifice of some sort should probably be made.”

“What do you recommend?” Blaine asks after a swallow. “I mean, she’s your friend…”

“Friend is kind of a strong word,” Kurt jokes, feeding Blaine another grape before picking a plump one out for himself. “But if this works out between us, we may have to erect a monument, make a public declaration…”

“What kind of public declaration?”

“An ad in a major newspaper would suffice. Or maybe we’ll be forced to name a child after her.” Kurt says it offhand, popping the grape into his mouth, his mind occupied elsewhere. But then what he says hits him, and he swallows the un-chewed grape whole. “O-or a pet.”

“A pet?” Blaine says, smiling at Kurt’s slip. He’s not going to linger on it. He’s done the same thing himself once or twice, daydreamed about what life would be like if he got to live it with a special someone.

Lord knows he’s done it with daydreams of Kurt.

Kurt shrugs, trying to get as far away from his faux pas as quickly as possible.

“Maybe she’ll let us get away with a houseplant.”

“A houseplant.” Blaine lifts up on his elbow and kisses Kurt, enjoying the way the tart flavor of fruit mingles in their mouths, thinking that he wouldn’t mind waking up this way every morning. “I can live with that.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
